Harry Potter and The Machinations of Malfezius
by Screwtheblacklighting
Summary: After Harry's fifth year, Voldemort's war comes crashing down on the wizarding world. Enlisting the help of a reluctant ally, The Order attempts to prepare Harry for his role in the struggle, but the road to his destiny may kill him before Voldemort does
1. Prologue

_**Prologue**_

"_Avada Kedavara!" The chorus chimed and mocked him from every direction with the spell. Time slowed, and the green jet barely trickled from her wand. Her gnashing teeth, the satisfied smirk on her worn and evil face like Satan's version of the Madonna, everything seemed a sculpted, immobile masterpiece. Her counterpart's face had been carved in surprise, but his eyes shone oddly calm welcoming the reaper's grasp that had ensnared him. Those dark eyes drifted for a moment until they locked with a pair of emerald green._

'_Move,' his pushed his thoughts outward hoping the message would reach;, hoping that the neon light would graze past his shoulder; hoping to see him stand triumphantly as he sent a crimson jet that would send the twisted witch sprawling through the air; hoping that the last link to the family he had never known would stand proud as pillar of strength that he could always rely on._

_Fate was not so kind._

_Green light drilled into the man's chest with only a soft 'oh' escaping from his lips to show the spell had hit its mark. The term 'puppet whose strings had been cut' always seemed like an exaggeration, but seeing his limp frame hurtle through the air, wand slipping from limp arms that hung dead at his sides and a body that tumbled backwards like an invisible arm had tugged violently at his collar, he could find little else to compare. _

_Time awoke again with a start pumping life into the scene so quickly he had no time to reach the flailing corpse before it passed behind a brittle, stone archway, disappearing behind a tattered cloth that blew against a wind unfelt by the living. He had never seen this place, nor this monument that stood prominent on the dais, but down inside the dark, primordial places where instinct told what books and teachers could not he knew what this arch was. He knew what lie behind that broken cloth, and he knew there was no coming back from it. _

_He was dead, never to return._

_A shout, but no words came out. A desperate reach, but his arms turned to cracked stone that fell soundlessly to the floor. A hard kick to force his body upward, but his legs suffered the same disease as his arms, and his body was left to uselessly sit on the floor. The stone dais disappeared in an instant along with the twisted Madonna, the cavernous walls of the room, everything swallowed by a dark maw leaving him as the only one illuminated. _

"_A taste of things to come," the hissing voice had no origin but pounded inside of his head, beating against every corner of his skull like a jackhammer. "Another string to your worthless past cut. But the past is so dull and there are so few links left. I think it's time we started working on the present, don't you?" Mocking laughter, inhuman laughter like listening to a snake choke on its tongue. _

"_Who should pass next…Hmm, I wonder," The shadows crept back revealing the inside of a modest hovel that he instantly recognized. He remembered with fondness the usual bustle of activity by the red-haired occupants of a family crammed into a space far too small. Whatever faint moment of happiness he had was quickly dashed as those occupants now lie lifeless on the floor, dead eyes staring open blankly their faces locked in permanent surprise._

"_The blood-traitor family that is so fond of you perhaps? Or…"_

_Another flash of darkness and the scene changed. This place was unfamiliar to Harry, but struck him as similar to the home he was forced to stay at during the Summer months, though far warmer and lighter by comparison. Death hung heavy here as well; a man and woman who he barely recognized lay slumped bleeding over pastel furniture along with a frizzy-haired young woman who lay between the two._

"_That mud-blood girl you're so fond of? Maybe too obscure…"_

_The flashes happened more rapidly now scenes shifting back and forth so fast his eyes stung. More corpses, more familiar faces laying lifeless, a macabre slideshow accompanied by the laughter of a bodyless voice._

"_So many delicious targets to choose from," there was a light step to the voice now, an almost giddy tone that sent chills up his spine, "I just can't pick one. Oh, why don't you hmm? A very kind offer I think. They'll all die eventually, but you get to pick the order." A deathly pale hand suddenly shot from the darkness and caressed against his face. The scaly sandpaper of its skin sidled across his cheek gently before wrapping around his chin and forcing his eyes skyward. Shadows peeled away in layers revealing the hand's owner a grisly specter of pure white whose eyes burned red so hard the shadows waned against its putrid light. His cracked lips parted into a Cheshire grin revealing rows of sharp teeth._

"_Isn't Lord Voldemort generous?" His mocking laughter erupted out of every corner pounding against him like a percussive drum every beat louder than the last. It threatened to break him apart, the pain becoming more intense with every second._

"_Choose Boy Who Lived! CHOOSE!"_

Harry awoke with a start, peeling the covers off his body in a writhing mass of limbs. He had managed to keep from screaming this time, though only by reflexively biting his tongue. His body was drenched in a cold sweat that left his body's imprint on the covers of the tiny bed, and his breathing was ragged and broken. But he had at least managed to keep silent after this time. He vividly remember the first time Voldemort had sent those images to him; he had yelled so loud Uncle Vernon burst into the room and threatened to gag him if he didn't keep his trap shut. At first he had thought they were nightmares, guilt over Sirius' death maybe. But every time he slept, they came creeping back Voldemort maliciously prodding every corner of his mind with sadistic glee.

Harry grasped blindly for his glasses on the nightstand and found comfort against the cold plastic and glass before setting them on his face. 'Only two hours,' thought Harry as his eyes drifted at the clock on his wall, 'That's a bit longer than usual. He must be too busy to torture me properly.' The images came with every night; visions of death, mutilation, and destruction with Voldemort mocking him at every turn. The nightmares were always different, but the message was the same. 'I will kill you, but I will kill everything you care about first'. What scrapes of Occlumency he had acquired in his lessons with Snape was about as protective as a sheet of worn parchment to Voldemort's abilities which seemed to grow stronger every night. It was ironic that out of all the people Harry wanted to see, the potion's master was at the top. Even his petty remarks and constant insults would be preferable to the hellish tortures Voldemort had deemed to expose Harry to in every dream.

'What I would give to see his greasy mug right now,' Harry thought rubbing the scar on his forehead in a useless attempt to dull the pain. The jagged etching on his head burned like a cattle brand forcing into his skull and would jerk with sharp pains that made him wince throughout the day. He closed his eyes again and felt a rush of fear split through him the moment he did. His body and mind were at war with each other, fatigue wracking every muscle demanding rest while instinct kept him awake from fear that the images would come again. If Voldemort intended to drive him mad he was doing a very good job of it.

Harry emptied his mind, imagining his brain an vacant, barren plain. It was a rudimentary defense at best, but if it would be enough to get him to dawn then he'd consider it a godsend.

'Just a few more days,' Harry thought to himself, 'just hang on a few more days.'

"_Dear child, you don't have days left…"_


	2. Chapter 1: Messrs O'Barron and Boagart

A shock of pain to his forehead awoke Harry from another restless night. His body did not start or jump up in shock but had become so familiar with the sensation it was like the sunlight at dawn. He groaned from weariness and rolled out of bed onto the hardwood floor with a thud. He pressed his face lovingly against the cold surface desperate for anything to cool the feverish pain that wracked his body. Fatigue and Voldemort's nightly jaunts through his mind had left him feeling trapped in a sauna turned up hot enough to burn the coals. Slowly, he placed his aching limbs against the floor and pushed himself up.

The day was surprisingly clear from the single window in his room and the sun sat overhead in a beautiful afternoon sky. Dawn had long since past and a deep cerulean had beaten back the red that usually greeted him.

'I must have gotten a few hours more,' Harry thought glibly, 'With any luck he's getting bored.' He opened the latches and brusquely pulled the window open hoping for a cool wind or at least a breeze. But summer had made itself known and the outside matched the overbearing heat he felt within himself. Harry gave an exhausted sigh and let himself collapse in his desk chair. Spellbooks that hadn't been touched all summer and scraps of parchment littered every corner. Harry knew he should be brushing up on his subjects, but the energy simply wasn't there, and he could only stare at them hoping that whatever knowledge inside would jump into his brain if he glared hard enough.

Two piles of parchment sat side by side next to his books. One was the few letters he had received over the summer from Ron and Hermione, though they hardly constituted as letters. Ron consistently wrote about how the Chudley Cannons were being robbed of their star players, and Hermione's letters seemed more akin to senile ramblings switching topics between the peculiar way Crookshanks was grooming himself and her parent's latest foray into orthodontics. It troubled Harry how when he needed to know what was happening in the magical world most he was always completely cut off from it. His two sources were being annoyingly tight-lipped again always ending their letters with 'No need to reply.' Harry shoved those bits towards the furthest corner hoping to push his frustrations out along with them.

Harry scraped the second pile towards himself. He flipped the tattered, yellow papers revealing a howling visage of scraggly hair and eyes so dark they looked like a single pupil; the only single pictures of his godfather he had left. They weren't exactly the best portrayal of who he was growling and grimacing like the insane lunatic the Daily Prophet had painted him out to be, but he only had one other photo with Sirius which had every other member of the order in its outline.

It was uncomfortable dealing Sirus' death. For some reason he didn't feel sad; surprisingly Harry hadn't cried a single tear over his death since then. But it wasn't acceptance either, nor the pangs of guilt that he had felt over Cedric's death. It wasn't a good feeling by any stretch of the imagination, nor was it particularly painful like grief or longing. It just haunted him with its existence; 'Odd' was the only word he could use to describe it. Like one of the corner pieces of a puzzle missing from the picture. It wasn't necessary to solve the full image, but it just didn't feel complete without it. It left the whole image awkward, but at the same time complete. It was the closest analogy he could come up with, though clumsy at best, and he wondered for a moment if Hermione would have been able to describe it better. Harry hoped that in time it would fade as he placed the scraps back to their proper place.

A quiet hooting had brought him away from his reflection and back to reality where an impatient, white owl had begun pecking lightly at the bars of her cage. Hedwig gave a quick glance into Harry's face before craning her neck towards the open window with an almost longing look.

"Alright, I get it," Harry smiled as he unfastened the ties around Hedwig's cage. He could easily sympathize with his avian companion, and she deserved to stretch her wings as much as she pleased. Harry lifted the bars and let the owl grasp onto his outstretched hand.

"Don't stay out too long. And don't bring home any more dead field mice please? Or at least make sure they're dead, I've no doubt got an infestation somewhere. Try bringing home some Honeyduke's or maybe Ron if you spot him down there," Harry added with a chuckle. Hedwig only cocked her head and gave him a friendly nip before pushing out and spreading her long wings against a clear sky. Harry watched her shrink into a white dot before she disappeared against the glaring sun. He had to admit feeling a tad jealous seeing her leave so easily.

A loud metallic ring like the chiming of a church bell broke Harry out of his stupor. The sound echoed for a moment through the floorboards before growing silent again.

'Old pipes,' thought Harry in annoyance. His living area had been made precariously close to the bathroom plumbing giving him an earful anytime someone flushed the toilet. 'Wouldn't be surprised if they busted at any mo-' Another bong, this time joined by a metallic chorus that slammed across the walls melodically.

'What the…did we start crapping metal all of the sudden?' Just then, the dull bongs struck again and Harry found himself dumbfounded as every beat moved against the flow of the water. It had finally dawned on him that something was moving _up_ the pipes not down.

"What's all that racket," bellowed another 'dulcet' tone above him. The floorboards creaked and sputtered dust as the heavy load moved with lumbering steps above him. "You banging on the pipes boy!? Quit your magicking, you're gonna muck up the works!"

"I'm not doing anything," Harry yelled back, "It sounds like something's coming up the drain."

Harry felt the stairs shudder and quake as the door to his room was flung open. His Uncle Vernon was having one of his trademark fits, and his plump face had begun to turn a distinct shade of cherry. Harry had seen this face so many times that he'd been able to distinguish the different color patterns his Uncle's face phased through. This was only rising anger.

"What you been doin? Witchin' up the toilet have ya? I'll have no magicking up my plumbing you hear."

"I've been 'witching' nothing; it's been going on for a bit." Vernon only growled before slamming the door shut and tottering off again.

"What's that noise Vernon," came the shrill voice of his Aunt Petunia, "I can hear it all over the house. Ooo!" She let out a small shriek as a particularly loud clang hit one of the spots above them. Harry couldn't tell easily, but if he had to guess whatever was causing the commotion was heading for the upstairs bathroom.

"Bloody plumbers muckin' up everything I 'spect," Vernon yelled back, "Last time I take advice from that pinhead in accountin'. They'll screw it all up, then come right back and fix it for double the cost. Cheeky bastards! I haven't ruled out watercloset witchcraft either!" Vernon shouted this part particularly loud in Harry' direction.

"Yes, the distinct branch of Watercloset Witchcraft invented by Professor John Can Bide," Harry muttered sarcastically. Still, in spite of causing his uncle's foul mood, Harry was curious what the cause of this commotion was.

"Whatever's comin' up, it ain't coming out that's for damn sure," the stair creaked again as Vernon made his way back up and above. "I ain't about to have my day cut short over some septic buildup."

"What're you shoutin' bout dad?" came another gruff voice to match his Uncle's. Suprising that Dudley had been awoken as his usual snoring was a hundred times worse than the pipe symphony they were hearing now. Another ring loud enough to shake the whole line as whatever was making its way up reached closer and closer to the only exit in the house.

Vernon gave no reply to his son but continued his tirade of curses against plumbers, faulty work, and Harry of course. Harry simply laid against his bed listening to the progression which had inched its way to just outside the upstairs bathroom.

"Shut off the water and get me something to plug it up wit'," Vernon barked at Petunia whose light steps barely rattled the boards as she scurried from one room to the other. A light sloshing of water accompanied by a few loud grunts and the melodic tune of brass came to a halt.

"Well, that solves that," Vernon beamed, "Don't need no Mr. Fix-it when you've got old fashioned ingenu-" The slow tremoring of the entire room cut him off mid-sentence. The pipes no longer chimed but rattled against one another in a cacophony that shook Harry's room like a mild earthquake. Suddenly, a loud boom above him cracked the floorboards above his head as a torrent of a thunderstorm rocked the bathroom overhead. Harry dove to the floor as the riptide sloshed through the cracks and drenched his whole bed where he lay moments before.

"Bloody hell," screamed his uncle from above, "When I get my hands on those saboteurs I'll….GWAAAAAAAH!" Harry had never thought Vernon's voice could hit a Soprano note, but it seemed properly motivated he could accomplish amazing things. Harry bolted from his room just in time to see the entire Dursley family rushing down the stairs in what could only be described as a stampede. Dudley was not so much run as trip on the stairs pushed forward by his father whose bulk did not belie such speed. Aunt Petunia was slung over Vernon's shoulder looking pale as a sheet as her head bobbed against Vernon's fat back. Even Vernon's usual shades of red and purple was replaced by a ghastly white, his usual blustering face contorted in a sniveling mass.

"Just get in the car," Vernon wailed to his son as he grabbed him gruffly by the collar and flung him out the door, "It's just like one of those horror stories in them third world nations." He grabbed the keys off the nearby stand and slammed the door behind him, not even bothering to grab his shoes. The Car's engine revved and sped out in a peel of rubber leaving the house eerily quiet.

Harry ran to the kitchen window, but the car had long since left his sight. He turned his head back towards the stairs, but the only difference there was the steady trickle of water now pouring down each step. He took a few tentative steps forward when the water began to pour in uneasy spurts. Harry stopped immediately craning his neck and trying to listen to anything upstairs. The sound of sloshing waves caught his attention like someone was wading lightly through water. Odd that there were no steps though, no splashes to indicate movement. Harry thought he must be going insane to consider a person coming up through the toilet…but he had seen stranger things before.

"Hello," he said tentatively, "anyone there?" The sloshing stopped leaving the upstairs completely silent. Harry walked slowly towards the base of the stairs again keeping his eyes trained on the dark floor above him. The sound of steam hissing against what was probably a busted pipe broke the silence for only a moment. Harry turned his head away from the top of the stairs for trying to avoid the flowing waterfall that had formed down the stairway. His eyes craned upwards again, and his entire body froze.

The sound of hissing steam Harry had heard earlier repeated from the flicking tongue of the monstrosity above him. Patching streaks of browns, grays, and greens wove across massive, sinewy muscle that stretched in a single breadth from a broad head to the pointed tail that lay somewhere at the end of the behemoth. A wide hood of speckled yellow matched its scaly belly which reared up so high its head almost touched the ceiling. Eyes as black and featureless as a doll reflected Harry's own terrified expression.

'How did a snake that size get through the toilet,' was the only thing Harry's mind could conjure before instinct snapped in and he rushed for the door. The serpent bounded off the stairs and rammed its frame against the door with a loud crack that nearly split the wood in two. Harry jumped backwards just before the behemoth's belly landed and shook the entire floor. Harry spun on his heel but only slipped on the wet, hardwood and landed on his back right at the snake's belly. Curling one of its giant coils into a great curve, it slammed its weight against Harry's stomach simultaneously pinning him to the ground and knocking the air out of his lungs.

Harry struggled in a flurry of limbs desperately trying to push the snake's wet bulk off but could only manage a coughing fit as the weight continued to press down on him. The thing's massive head hovered over Harry, so close he could see his own reflection in the glistening, black orbs looking back at him. The snakes' forked tongue flicked out a few times tickling Harry's skin, though he managed to suppress any laughter. Nothing about the situation felt remotely funny, though he could imagine the headlines of 'Boy Who Lived Killed by Giant Sewer Snake!' to have an amusing tone to them. He couldn't scream, nor move, and his wand was too far to call by hand; left at the mercy of a gigantic predator he could only wait an agonizing existence for the snake to finish its next meal. The great maw split open as dagger fangs dangled from its mouth, an acidic, green venom dripping along with the saliva that coated the snake's grisly jaws. Harry closed his eyes and grit his teeth hard and waited for the first bite to sink in.

"Messssage for you young massster."

The piercing pain of fangs shredding his skin never came, but as Harry opened his eyes a soggy piece of wet cud fell from the snake's open mouth and hit Harry square on his own face with a slap. The iron weight of the snake's bulk shifted quickly from his stomach, and Harry tore the paper from his face to take in a few deep breaths. It slithered its way quietly into the kitchen completely ignoring Harry as it took the liberty to poke its large snout into the open cupboards and pantry. Pausing for a moment it turned back to Harry and cocked his head in a familiarly condescending manner, though it seemed oddly juxtaposed on a snake.

"Well, are you not going to read it," he asked flicking his forked tongue out awkwardly to match the words. Harry rose warily to his feet and backed up a few paces towards the door.

"Um…well…you're not….what are you exactly?" The snake did not reply but continued to stare at him tapping the end of its tail impatiently against a table leg. Harry was about to repeat himself when he realized the only reason he could understand the snake was by parseltongue. Harry hated the way the words rolled from his mouth when speaking snake (another reminder of Voldemort that left a heavy pit in his stomach), but concentrated on the latent ability and repeated his question again.

"I represent the interests of my master," the snake replied quickly, emphasizing every 's' with a heavy hiss, "who represents the interests of those, a one Order of the Phoenix in particular a one Mr. Albus Dumbledore, who represent the interests of you, a one Mr. Harry Potter. Am I mistaken?"

"I…no…I guess not," Harry still had trouble shifting between fighting against a monster trying to kill him, and now dealing with carrying on the longest conversation he had ever had with a snake. "Ya know, you could have been a little more clear about that rather than bursting in through the toilet like some underground sewer monster," Harry bit back, regaining some of his confidence now that he was pretty sure the snake was not going to kill him.

The snake bowed its great head slightly. "My sincerest apologies, but it seemed like the most discreet route. I am not a common, garden variety, and I did not wish you to leave until the message was delivered in full. I encountered an obstruction, but perhaps I was overzealous in my task. If I broke any of your bones I shall inform my master immediately. Please read the note; it will answer your questions in full. By the by, you wouldn't happen to have any Earl Grey in the vicinity would you? I'm dreadfully parched."

The snake didn't sound sincere though Harry didn't have enough experience in parseltongue to know if serpents could express themselves that way. It continued its clumsy search through the cupboards flitting its tongue against the neatly arranged glassware leaving streaks of spittle that he knew he'd have to clean before the Dursleys came crawling back…assuming they came back.

Harry turned his attention back to the wet scrap the snake had heaved on him making sure to keep the serpent within his line of sight. Turning the rolled paper over in his hands a familiar shield crest kept the soggy mass in a scroll. Harry pried the red wax away with his fingernail and the paper rolled out dropping a fiery-orange feather to the floor with it.

'Fawkes,' the color of Dumbledore's phoenix had been etched in his mind since the Chamber of Secrets and nothing convinced Harry more that this piece of parchment was legitimate. The ink had begun to run down the length of the paper wet with the snake's juices, but it was legible enough.

**Harry,**

**You will be picked up from your relatives at 6:00 PM on August the 15th.**

**A man named Shamus O'Barron will be meeting you.**

**Gather your things, you will not be returning.**

**The password will be Dionysus.**

**PS: Don't worry about your owl.**

'August 15th, that's today,' the note gave Harry some comfort, but left his parched brain desperate for more. The words barely scratched a fraction of the long parchment, and Harry searched every inch of it for more. He turned back to the snake who had somehow managed to fill a kettle with water and light the stove. Light steam began to pour through the tip that soon whistled an annoying pitch. The snake grasped the kettle's wooden handle with its mouth and gingerly poured the boiling liquid into two pieces of the rare, floral pattern China set his Aunt Petunia only took out for special occasions. The designs matched her name with gaudy, purple flowers decorating the sides with only the long string of a tea bag to overlap them.

"Would you care for some young master," the snake hissed pleasantly, "I made enough for two. Give time for the bags to soak in though."

"Thanks," Harry said taking the cup and holding it tentatively in his hand, "Was there anything else? Any other message or information you were supposed to deliver Mr…um…"

"Humphrey. And no need for the Mister. I would like to think that we may have a pleasant and familiar working relationship together."

"Wait, what do you mean by that?" But the snake had swiveled its head towards the chirping wall-clock that chimed with a different bird for every hour.

"Oh dear, no time for tea it seems," Humphrey pushed its lips out in a comical pout and slithered back towards the stairs, "Sorry I can't stay and chat, but we'll be seeing each other again soon I think. And sorry about the mess. I'm sure my master will help repair your keeper's house…well…maybe…then again he's not really the charitable type. In any case I assure you our next meeting will be a more pleasant one...I think." He sidled easily up the stairs splashing against the water that was now flooding into the kitchen.

"Oh, and um…please refrain from using the facilities for a few moments if you would. It was a most dreadful journey, and I would rather dislike being followed by any…unsanitary items. Thank you."

Humphrey slithered out of sight flitting his tail in a wave goodbye before Harry heard the rhythmic percussion of brass again. Slowly the bonging of pipes settled, and the house felt strangely quiet with only the pitter patter of drainage water to break it.

***

Harry threw the dripping mop back into the broom closet to clatter with its brethren. Cleaning the mess hadn't been his first instinct and the thought of leaving the Dursleys to deal with their own miniature water park was very tempting. But as time passed and the water began to lick at his ankles he did feel guilty for the mess Humphrey had made and set about fixing what he could if only to kill the hours before his ride arrived. He had shut off the water so that the shallow pool only idled rather than seeping into every crack and corner on the house. As appealing as using magic to right this was, he knew that a repeat of last year's fiasco would not bode well, especially if his excuse was "I had to clean up the mess the toilet monster left behind." The loo had been all but demolished, scattered shards of porcelain littered the room like jagged glass with several pieces embedded in the walls as if they had always been a part of the pastel, posy decorum.

Now Harry lay on his trunk staring up at the cracks Humphrey's entrance had left behind. The light of the bathroom window barely skidded revealing bits of the disaster Harry felt hadn't been worth messing with. His first excitement at being taken away from the doldrums with the Dursleys now turned to pangs of worry and impatience. An hour past the allotted time and there was still no sign of anyone. The fireplace sputtered no sparks of entry and any owls besides his own had not been seen. Hedwig's cage lay sitting on the windowsill illuminated by the slowly fading sun as it burned its last orange embers on the sky, though the owl had not returned for the night and felt pangs of worry about what Dumbledore had said in the letter. He wondered for a moment if Voldemort had intercepted this Shamus O'Barron and was torturing him, readying to pounce on Harry as soon as he stepped out the door.

Speaking of which, Shamus O'Barron was a name he had never heard before. Harry pulled the picture of the various order members Mad Eye Moody had given him. The name O'Barron had not come up in Moody's ordering, but there were several faces here that he did not recognize. Dumbledore and his brother stood as the true elders amongst the crowd of fresh young faces brimming with energy.

Harry was reminded fondly of the D.A. formed in opposition to its own tyrant attempting to wretch power, but some anal-retentive loon from the ministry had nothing on Voldemort, a true threat. He always wondered what these men and women had thought looking into that camera, together for what perhaps could be the last time. It all felt strangely macabre knowing how many of them were dead or scarred beyond recognition; Harry's eyes fell on the Longbottoms at the latter remark. He wondered how many more of the survivors would die before Voldemort fell…if he fell at all.

Harry's mind came back into focus with a sharp squeal of rubber caught his attention. The loud growl of an enormous engine shook the windows hard enough for the glass to beat against the frame in a staccato chime. He rushed to the window and could only gawk at the monstrosity peeling its way down the street.

The cherry red chassis of the beast stuck out like a gaudy, neon light against the dull grays and white pastels of the cookie-cutter houses on either side. Chrome hubcaps reflected like mirrors sharp enough to blind on a topless, body so low it seemed to sink into the pavement. Black smoke poured out the end in spurts and sparks like the monstrosity was coughing between its threatening growl; a growl that became deafening as it swerved from house to house before parking itself right on the Dursley's front lawn. If the order was going for subtlety, they'd failed miserably, but even worse than the vehicle was the driver himself who rose from the car with a click of the key and heavy thud of the door.

Harry gawked at the visitor who resembled someone pulled from one of those 1960's motorcycle gang movies Uncle Vernon fawned over; one of those titular characters who would come blazing out of a dust storm, riding triumphantly on his hog with the head of the local sheriff in his bloody fingers. His height had been well hidden inside the lowrider, but with his legs stretched out he looked gargantuan compared to the other Order members (Hagrid excluded). Black leather shot starkly against a white cotton t-shirt that stretched horribly against the imposing musculature that threatened to break its bonds any second. His trench coat kissed the heels of his shoes with every step and barely waved against his stride, almost seeming to be bolted to his boots. Tight black jeans completed his look overlapping heavy, black boots that Harry could hear clunking even on the soft grass outside. Black sunglasses obscured some of his face which seemed surprisingly young and pale for a member of the order. His flaming, red hair had been done into a short, garish pompadour that completed his outlandish mystique.

He didn't give Harry a single glance through the window as he strode towards the door, daintily overstepping Aunt Petunia's flower bed as he did so. The house shook again as he beat his fist against the door frame.

"Oy kid," shouted the gruff, deep voice outside so thick with an Irish accent he must have wanted everyone to know where he came from, "get your crap and let's get the hell out of here. C'mon I ain't got all day to chauffer you around." Harry moved quickly from window to the front door but paused before unlocking the bolt.

"Password," Harry snapped back.

"Oh c'mon kid, who the hell else is gonna come around this time of day?"

"Password now!" Harry could hear the man growling curses under his breath, but he wasn't about to fall for any traps.

"Ah, Jesus Christ," he muttered, "what was it? Damn…something Greek…Uh…Holy Diver…no no….wine…celebration…oh, that fat guy they worship…Di…Didi…Di-Dionysus. Password's Dionysus. Now open the damn door already you're drawing attention to our position!"

'Yeah, _I'm_ drawing attention,' Harry thought glibly. He turned the bolt with a clack and opened the door. The man threw himself inside, almost wary that the door might lock again before slamming it behind him. Up close he looked even more imposing, dwarfing Harry easily.

"Paranoid little twat aren't you," the man said before sidling past Harry straight into the kitchen. The cupboards flew open with a flick of his wrist shooting a tall glass into his open hand. "Guess I can't blame you, but we're late enough as is." He thrust the glass underneath the sink and let the tap flow into it before chugging it sloppily down his throat.

"That all your crap there," he said nodding his head towards Harry's trunk.

"Yeah sure, hold on a minute," Harry rose his voice enough to echo across the entryway, "Just who are you exactly?" Harry felt he had just said something incredibly stupid as the man stared at him like he had just piddled himself on the hardwood floor.

"You did get the letter didn't you?"

"Yes, but-"

"And you met Humphrey right?"

"You sent that sna-"

"And you can read can't you? I'd think that'd be standard Hogwarts curriculum."

"Now hold on-"

"Shamus O'Barron," he roared apparently under the assumption Harry was deaf, stupid or both, "Like it says on the damn letter. Jesus Christ, how have you survived this long? I'd be more afraid of you drowning in a puddle of your own piss rather than any Death Eater killing you with wits like that. Well c'mon, or do I need to hold your hand whilst we walk across the grass too?" Shamus shouted another smattering of curses before in one, smooth motion throwing the glass over his shoulder, shoving Harry out of his path, and making a straight b-line for his car.

Harry almost felt grateful to the pale Irishman. For the first time in nearly two months he paid no heed to the fatigue wracking at his body and mind; in fact he could feel very little except the aching need to punch his smug, churlish face in until he resembled the snake that had come bursting through the plumbing this morning. It felt good to be angry at something tangible rather than fretting over his dreams and the pieces of paper he got from his friends.

"Who the hell do you think you are," Harry snapped back, "you send some demented python after me, come barging in here barking orders, and you expect me to just follow like a good boy!? I've got some questions for you before we get on-"

"I tell you what I'm not boy," Shamus spat, "and that's patient! Dumbledore sent me to fetch you. The old fart seems to think you're worth more than two quid, but I aint' asking questions. Now you're getting in the car, one way or another. Don't make me get the switch lad…"

Harry stood at the entrance meeting Shamus' cold gaze unflinchingly. With his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, Harry could only smolder at the black panels reflecting the midday sun overhead. It no doubt looked like a scene straight from any kind of dysfunctional family, child yelling at elder, barking loud enough for the neighbors to gawk disapprovingly at the function in front of them. Shamus was right; they were drawing a lot of attention, but Harry could not stop fuming. The first contact he had with the magical world in nearly two months and it was a git Irishman who treated him like something scraped off the bottom of his boots.

"Fine," Harry finally spat between clenched teeth, "but in the future, I'd appreciate if you'd do your job in a less bastardly way."

"No promises. Now get." Shamus shoved his thumb towards the passenger side of the car. Harry took a single step forward, when his entire body felt like he had stepped on an open power line. In a split-second the shock left him, leaving a faint tingling on his skin and slight pain burrowing into his mind. It was like lightning had scarred across his brain leaving the crevasse of its passage carved into his brain. "What's wrong kid? You're stalling."

Harry rubbed his temples futily hoping the swishing would draw the pain out. "It's…nothing I'm com-" He stopped and turned back towards the house. His eyes scanned the spot where his trunk had lain, but found it completely bare. There was no sign of movement, no trail leading out the door. He turned back towards the lowrider to find it lying comfortably in the back seat, leaning against a yellowing pile of paper that looked like it would fly out of the car on the next sharp turn.

"Was that…did we move that?" The annoyed grimace fell of Shamus' face like a mask, and he let his head rest on a single hand staring at Harry like some kind of rare oddity had stumbled out in front of him.

"Yeah, we moved it earlier while you were throwing a fit, don't you remember?" Harry kept his gaze locked on the trunk sitting neatly in the back like it had always been there. He racked his brain, trying to remember every step Shamus had taken in the house. Not once did he remember a single spell, a wave of a wand, or even the scraping clank of his trunk against the floorboards. Yet his mind wrestled with Shamus' words like chains keeping some fragile façade wrapped to his mind. Pain, a tightening grip, like someone was choking his thoughts.

"We…did move it," Harry stuttered the words spitting them out like vile food, "we…no…we didn't move it did we?" The pain disappeared in a flash leaving not a trace it had existed, but instead a gentle euphoria swept over Harry's mind a feeling like he had just won a small victory against something. He brought his head up to see Shamus applauding his efforts.

"Well done kid," Shamus said, "things are starting to make a bit of sense. Now get in the car, there's a lot we'll have to fill you in on." Harry thought about pressing the issue again, but didn't have the energy to continue the tirade. With a sigh, he let the issue drop and sat down next to Shamus in the passenger side. The inside of the car was just as gaudy as the outside. Treated, white leather sqeaked as he sat down and a neon, leopard print covered everything from the floor to the dashboard. Whatever his abilities, Shamus seemed to be lacking distinctly in taste.

"Seatbelts," the warning only came seconds before the engine roared to life and screeched back onto the road leaving a deep trench in the Dursley's yard. Harry slammed into the back of the seat as Shamus jammed the accelerator down onto the floor. The car exploded forward with the force of a helldemon exploding from the stygian pits, and the scenery melted together in a long blur.

"So you've been out of the loop for a while eh," Shamus shouted over wind ripping around them, "Best get you up to speed then. Humphrey! Get him the July 15th issue!" Harry heard the faint rustling of papers behind him and found an old issue of the Daily Prophet plopped on his lap. He quickly jerked his head over to see a familiar speckled hood towering over him. Harry recoiled just as Shamus squealed into a hard turn that nearly threw Harry out the side. The cold coils of Humphrey's body comfortably wrapped around him, tethering Harry to his seat. Being restrained by a giant snake didn't really make Harry feel better about the manic way Shamus was careening down the street like a stockcar race, but the shivering of the coils around him and Humphrey's head ducking underneath the newspaper in Harry's lap made him feel he wasn't the only one who felt that way.

"He's a lot smaller than I remember him," said Harry struggling to hold the flittering newspaper in his lap.

"Oh course he is," Shamus said sarcastically, "my Familiar's gotta come in travel size. There's no way I could cart him around at full girth."

"Familiar?" Shamus gave Harry another look of scorn that made him think he had said something really stupid.

"Jesus Christ your education's lacking. Better bone up, and that includes knowing what's the going on." Shamus tapped the front page of the prophet before cursing and swerving the car into a complete U-turn to the frustrated honking and screeching tires of three lanes of traffic. Harry smashed the paper flat across his lap trying carefully not press on Humphrey's quivering head. The headline on the front page struck him like a slap in the face, and suddenly Shamus' suicidal driving seemed miles away.

_**Durmstrang Falls to Death Eaters: "You-Know-Who Plagues Europe**_

He stared blankly at the title wondering if had somehow read it wrong, that if somehow he stared long enough the letters would change into something, anything else. But the picture beneath told far more than the words. Cradled by high cliffs on all sides and surrounded by great redwood trees, a complex fortress of dark stone Harry could only assume was Durmstrang burned like a pyre below. The ghoulish grin of the Dark Mark gleamed with manic glee overhead, it's snake tongue razzing the carnage below. Harry read with feverish pace not wanting to skip a single word in the article.

With You-Know-Who's apparent rise a few months ago, reports have been flooding in of possible sightings, death-eater murders, and the Dark Mark blotting the sky. All unconfirmed until now. Late at Midnight, forces lead by You-Know-Who attacked and ransacked the Eastern European school of Durmstrang, well know for its loose restrictions on the Dark Arts. Reports state that the attack took place after midnight in the dead of night. Survivors claim You-Know-Who came without warning with waves of berserk muggles, dark creatures, and Death Eaters in tow.

Little resistance appeared to be put forth as You-Know-Who's forces swarmed over every inch of the school and took the entire area in less than an hour. The current headmaster, Igor Karkaroff was nowhere to be found before or after the attacks, and escaped students and faculty could not locate him during the rampage.

This is just another of You-Know-Who's terrorizing of all Europe. Reports of the Dark Mark have been flooding in since Minster of Magic Cornelius Fudge declared You-Know-Who to be resurrected and at large. Any attempts to reach Fudge for comment proved futile, only issuing dubious statements that it would be taken care of. Many in the wizarding community have voted in the previous month that Cornelius Fudge be removed from office, but a vote of confidence by Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore silenced

We here at the Prophet send our best wishes to the families of those students and faculty still unaccounted for during the Chaos…

Harry lifted his head from the paper as his mind wrestled with everything that had been happening in the short period of time since his departure.

"Durmstrang," he said to himself, "Why Durmstrang?" A squeal of rubber that sent Harry's head lurching into the dashboard broke him from thought. He rubbed the aching bump on his forehead and shot Shamus a nasty look who only stared idly at the crosswalk tapping his fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel..

"A lot of us were wondering the same thing," Shamus said as Harry opened his mouth to shout, "It's not his style to be so open about his conquests. Giving a place to attack isn't wise either as he still doesn't have the resources to fight off a full-scale assault."

"We? You mean the Order of the Phoenix?"

"Ha!" Shamus' barking laugh was extremely off-putting, and Harry didn't feel he had said anything particularly funny. "You think I'm part of that doddering, old dust-fart's little suicide squad? Yeah right. I intend to live through this with my skin firmly intact. Only martyrs, or idiots as I call them, are willing to bite the big one for that clown." Harry felt the blood rush to his head with every word slipped from Shamus' lips. Every threshold broke like frayed string and before his mind could catch up Harry drew his wand and jabbed it firmly into Shamus' neck. A squeal of rubber soon followed as Shamus jammed on the breaks at the next red light.

"My parents were a part of that suicide squad," Harry fumed, every word shot out like steam behind clenched teeth, "And so were many people worth a hundred times more than you. And if you ever disrespect them again I'll-"

"Kill you," Shamus tilted his head looking straight at Harry for the first time since he entered the car. There wasn't an ounce of fear written on his face, and his words rang mockingly, almost goading Harry on. "Cause that's what it looks like. You really willing to kill a man you've never met in your life over a few words?"

"Listen, I-"

"Do it," Shamus' tone grew so cold it froze Harry's rage solid. "Do it then. You know the words. They're the same words you've heard a dozen times. You know what they are, so go ahead. Do it, punish the big-bad Irishman for making fun of your ma and pa. Normals won't think anything of it, probably just a heart-attack or something like that. You might even get away with it if you're lucky. Not every case of underage magic flits through the ministry's ears. Besides, you'll have to do it sometime anyway, might as well get used to the killing feeling if you're the one to defeat Mr. Riddle. So you go right ahead Mr. Harry Potter." He leaned his face close to Harry's, pressing the muscles of his neck hard against Harry's wand. "End me."

It was like the plug had been pulled from his brain. Not a thought flowed through, and his body froze along with it. He never had any intention of killing Shamus, as satisfying bloodying him up a bit might feel, but looking at his wand dug so firmly into Shamus' neck Harry wondered what he was originally going to do.

"_You'll have to do it sometime anyway…"_

That's right. He'd have to kill Voldemort. Neither can live while the other survives, the prophecy had marked him a murderer eventually. But more than that, it meant he'd have to stand in front of Voldemort eventually. The fight between Dumbledore and Voldemort seared into his mind. The Headmaster struggling, parrying, and attacking at full strength, Voldemort sparing no quarter in return. The room burned, windows crashed, the wind blew as two primal forces tore into each other like a maelstrom. It was incredible, inconceivable, and impossible for him to repeat. He'd have to stand on equal footing with a man who almost broke his mentor.

Harry felt the blast of pain across his face as Shamus delivered a quick smack across the bridge of his nose bringing him slamming back into reality. Harry's eyes teared and closed for an instant, and in that time Shamus quickly tore his wand from Harry's hands and shoved him back against the car seat.

"Well if you're done throwing a fit," Shamus said tucking the wand into his pants, "we can be on our way. I'll give your toys back to you when you learn to play nice." The light changed and Shamus floored the accelerator like he was smashing an ugly insect into the pavement. Harry's first thought, aside from clutching his throbbing nose, was to smash Shamus back in his face. But being encircled by his pet serpent and probably being outweighed in the bout by at least seventy or eighty pounds made him force that thought in the back of his mind where he seemed to be stockpiling his angst as of late. He simply turned to the side trying to keep thoughts of the surly Irishman from his mind.

As he watched the neighborhoods speed on by the tone and order of Little Winging disappeared in favor of a dilapidated decor of crusted brick apartments and Swiss cheese pavement that made the car shake like it was on hydraulics with every rolling turn. Boarded windows and drably men pressed against buildings as tight as the crumbling stones filled Harry with a threatening sense of paranoia. Anyone of these men could be Death Eaters or Voldemort's servants lying in wait, yet here they were driving down the street in an open topped car that may as well have had sirens blare it stood out so much. Harry's eyes darted over every crack and burn on the buildings, every staring face or gnarled grin ready to duck down at a shot of green light exploding from any direction. Shamus holding his wand left him feeling naked, and every nerve on his body felt the cold feeling of prey jolt through his exhausted frame. He wondered how far he'd be able to run if his courier was shot down, and even entertained that notion for a little while.

"Here we go," bellowed Shamus as he slammed on the brakes sending Harry throttling into dashboard with a thud. Humphrey uncoiled from his body and slithered somewhere in the recesses of the backseat leaving Harry to take in a deep breath now that the serpent wasn't gripping him like a terrified child. Shamus bounded from the car and pulled Harry's trunk over the side letting it slam into the worn concrete of the pavement. Harry turned to give another scathing remark to the collection the foul Irishman was collecting but was stopped midsentence at a single glance of the building.

He remembered some day lost in time where Uncle Vernon during his daily rant on the plight of the middle-class made mention on how all government housing was basically rat-infested, sewer tripe for jobless sponges. While Harry refused to share any sentiment with his Uncle, Shamus didn't exactly destroy Vernon's stereotype. The building shared the same crumbling exterior of exposed beams, shattered fire escapes, and doors barely swinging off their hinges from when the police or whoever kicked them in. It seemed to complement Shamus' already shady demeanor, and Harry now wandless felt the best course of action was probably to run to the nearest police station and tell them Shamus had somehow cajoled him into the car.

"Well, you coming or not," Shamus' sarcastic tone jerked Harry from his thoughts, "I know it ain't the Taj Mahal, but you're not going to be staying here long anyway. It's probably safer than that suburban paradise you were parking at."

"I hardly think 'safe' is the proper word for this hell-hole," Harry scoffed back.

"Ugh, look kid. I get that you've got your panties in a bunch what with being number one on Mr. Riddle's enemies list, but his plans look like they extend beyond petty revenge. He'll wait until he's in a position to take you down easily, where there's no one and nothing left in his way. Don't get me wrong, Riddle's petty, but he's not stupid. He won't waste resources on you when there's much bigger fish to fry."

"Wait, do you know what he's planning?" Harry's disgust with his situation faded immediately. Information on Voldemort was in short supply and irritating his would-be chauffer could wait. Shamus true to his character just shrugged and sauntered towards the building waving Harry to come in behind him.

"Irritating to the end aren't you," Harry muttered under his breath, "I can't say I'll be sorry when we part ways." Harry threw off his reservations deciding that any kind of cover was better than standing out in the open. Shamus had Dumbledore's approval so he didn't believe he'd try to harm him, despite when the evidence screamed the opposite. Harry dragged his trunk towards the stone steps as Shamus gave a hard kick to plywood door sending it spiraling off its hinges and clattering inside. Harry wondered for a moment if he actually owned an apartment or if he was squatting in one of the residences. The latter seemed more likely. Shamus rounded on one of the doors pulling back on the handle until it clicked and swung open.

"This is you for now," Shamus spat out bullet points like welcoming a convict to his new cell, "There's a couch there and a toilet in the back. I'll be back in a few hours. Don't open the door for anyone. If you need anything until then...tough." He wretched Harry's chest and tossed it with a surprising ease into the room before bolting back towards the now doorless frame.

"Wait," Harry shouted after, "what about my wand." Shamus patted the thin bulge of his pocket where Harry's wand was pressed.

"Well, I guess you should learn to play nice first, eh?" He shot Harry that parting blow with a raucous grin and swept out the door.

'You know,' Harry mused almost comically, 'I didn't think there'd ever be a person on this planet who'd compete with Snape for the 'Biggest-Ass-in-the-World' medal, but damn if he isn't trying.' Exhausted both physically and mentally, Harry didn't have the energy to offer a parting shot and just swept into the room, or what was left of one. Harry fondly remembered at the Quidditch Cup the wonder of looking at the shabby exterior of tents and buildings only to marvel at the lavish interior held within. He'd hoped Shamus' hole would be the same, but sometimes things are exactly as they appear.

The entire room looked like a patchwork of the worst fashion designs from the last four decades all magically transported to one room. Brown shag carpeting as high and thick as dead grass clashed against gaudy, pastel blue and whites that splotched randomly across the walls like a schizophrenic painter had designed them. Long chains of multicolored beads replaced doors to an empty bedroom and wreck of a bathroom that looked like Shamus had hosted five drunken keggers with diarrhea just the other day. The only thing that looked remotely clean was a gigantic slab of sandstone sitting in the middle of the room surrounded on all sides by bright lamps that warmed the rock like small suns. A small plaque glittered at the very edge of the slab labled 'Messr Humphrey Boagart'. The purpose of this device only became clear as a miniature Humphrey slithered into the room past him and spread himself over it almost smiling as he bathed in the hot rays.

'So the snake sleeps better than I do,' thought Harry as he stared at the pea-green couch that looked like it might have been the chewtoy of one of Hagrid's pets. Harry's fatigue outweighed his revulsion, and he let his leaden body slide across it like Humphrey on his rock. He knew sleep would bring the dreams again; the tell-tale visions Voldemort deigned to bring on him every time his eyes closed. Still, Harry felt better than he did staying at the Dursleys'. Every day there felt like a stagnant torture, being blind in the eye of a torrent that threatened to unleash its wrath on everything he cared about. Now, even with his chauffeur's bad attitude, Harry felt like he was moving forward. It wouldn't be long before the Irishman was long behind him, and everything that made his heart jump and his spirit soar would come back to him. Hogwarts, Ron, Hermione, and all his friends were waiting. And even now, sitting in a hot, dank hellhole on a rickety couch with deadly snake curled next to him, he felt more at peace that he ever did the months before.

Who knows, maybe he'd be lucky enough to get a few hours sleep.


End file.
